


In the Dark, By My Side

by grand_adventure_running



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:04:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6707275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_adventure_running/pseuds/grand_adventure_running
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roman mind-controls more than one person at once in S1EP11. Personally, I think he should have had a harder time shaking that off. So, I rewrote the scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Dark, By My Side

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 01.11. (Title from “Nitesky” by Robot Koch feat. John Lamonica.)

When Roman makes eye contact with him, like he’s checking on Peter, like he’s asking, like he’s promising, Peter knows what he’s doing when he nods his head. He can see it inside him, the fear-fury, the dangerous cocktail of energies that in Roman could mean anything. He asked once at what point did he become an idiot for trusting him—well, this might be it, but fuck everything because he still trusts him.

So when he turns on his heel, one long, lean line—a knife’s edge, Peter thinks—and faces the cop that has a gun on him, Peter is tensed to react if necessary but only if necessary.

“Put the gun in your mouth,” Roman orders.

Peter thinks, _the fuck are you doing?_ but he stays put.

“Come back here. What the fuck are you doing?” the other cop says, less confident now in the face of Roman’s defiance.

“Uncuff him.”

“Screw you.”

“If he’s still handcuffed by the time I count to three, pull the trigger.”

Peter takes a breath and rolls his shoulders, biting down on curses. They do not need a dead cop on top of everything else, goddamn him. 

Roman starts to count.

“Okay, okay! Just calm down, buddy.” The second cop hurries to uncuff him and then turns slowly, facing Roman again.

Peter scrambles to get in front of Letha, baser instincts working overtime to serve him when under threat so soon after the full moon. Letha’s the most vulnerable: smallest, physically weakest, and pregnant. It doesn’t matter to the thrum of adrenaline and the hair-raising prickle coasting over his shoulders and back that he’s only a human shield. 

“What the _fuck_ , man?” 

“Come here.”

He watches as the second cop walks around and stands beside the guy with his gun in his mouth. As Roman directs them to the West Virginia border, he starts to relax, reassured by the surety in Roman’s voice. A smirk tugs at his mouth when Roman dismisses them.

Standing a bit painfully, muscles still post-moon stiff and back protesting the blows delivered to it, Peter makes his way toward Roman, reaching a hand out to lean against the wall. As the cops turn and leave, Roman’s hands come up to wipe at his nose. Peter can smell the blood, can see Roman’s red fingers, and it’s a lot more than usual.

“Roman,” Letha says, “Roman, what did you do to them?”

“I just suggested they relocate,” he says, not turning around, not lowering his hands.

“ARE YOU OKAY?” Shelley’s speech program asks.

“I’m fine, Shelly. Don’t worry about it,” he replies, but he’s pinching his nose and a wince is crinkling the skin around his eyes.

Shelley is still faintly glowing blue and her hands are poised to tap out another message, unconvinced. 

“Are you bleeding?” Letha asks, voice pitched high, and it’s becoming more than she can handle, Peter can tell.

“It’s not a big deal,” Roman insists, but the bleeding doesn’t stop. “Fuck.” He turns to face them, but he’s unbalanced for a few seconds and his face goes gray.

“Shit,” Peter mutters and makes a grab for him when his knees bend. Roman leans heavily into him, one red-tipped hand gripping his shoulder, and Peter is capable of holding him up for only so long before abused muscles make him sink to the floor.

“Hey.” Peter tilts Roman’s face up. “Hey, don’t fucking pass out.”

“M’not going to fucking pass out,” Roman mutters. “It’s not safe here.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Roman reaches up and pinches his nose again. “Fucking head is going to explode.”

This close, all Peter can smell is the blood on Roman’s fingers. It stirs something agitated in him, something still on the defensive. “Well, don’t do it just yet. We have to get out here.”

“I can call my dad,” Letha says and startles the both of them. She digs out her cellphone. “There’s a place, an old church no one uses anymore.”

Peter glances at Roman. “Sounds perfect.”

\--

Peter drives because he’s not at risk of passing out behind the wheel. He keeps checking Roman in the rearview, reassured that the bleeding has finally stopped, but Roman looks a mess. Like he killed something and that’s definitely not the image they want to promote. They support each other into the church while Letha carries Peter’s bag and his cat.

She talks with Norman, apologizing for potentially getting him into trouble, and Peter finds a covered pew to sit Roman down on. He looks better but for the headache that seems to persist. Peter wants him to stay and he knows the stress of the turn and the morning are to blame. While Roman leans back and presses at his forehead with his fingertips, Peter thinks of a few reasons for him to stay.

“Are you okay to drive?” he asks instead.

“Probably. Maybe.”

“You don’t deserve that car if you’re just going to go out and wreck it again.”

Roman moves his hand and peers at him with one eye. “Oh, yeah?” He’s quiet for a moment. “I told Shelley I’d be back soon.”

“She’ll be fine until you make sure your brain is going to stay in your head.”

“Yeah,” he sighs and closes his eyes again. “Shit.”

Letha walks over to them, glances at Roman. “I’m going to head out with my dad. You’ll be okay here?”

Peter smiles. “Practically paradise.”

She shakes her head. “Seriously.”

“We’re good here. Go on. Stay safe.”

“You, too.” Letha bends to kiss his mouth and it’s strange—the scent of Roman’s blood is still in his nose and, while he knows the church is safe, Letha feels like a distraction he can’t afford right now. He’s reassured by the fact that she’s leaving safely with her father. He won’t have to worry about her as long as she stays away.

She leaves with her father and then it’s just the two of them and his cat in a dusty, old church. Part of him wants to look around, see what he can loot, but he’s in no shape to and he just wants to stay close.

“So, you want the pew or the bathtub?”

“The fuck is a bathtub doing in a church?”

“Hell if I know.”

Roman groans and lies down on his side, head only a few inches from Peter’s hip. He stays for a few minutes, noting the change in breathing when Roman goes to sleep. When Peter leaves the pew, the cat jumps up to take his place, curling up against Roman’s head. He pulls the sheet off the tub and lowers himself into it, uses his bag as a makeshift pillow. He sits so he can see Roman and lets the quiet of the old church filter through his senses. Finally letting the remaining post-moon exhaustion sweep through him, Peter closes his eyes.


End file.
